


watch me burn

by RunicHealer



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types, Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blackmail, Depression, Eating Disorders, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, In Water Ending, M/M, Mentions of Mia Winters, Post-Resident Evil 7, Post-Silent Hill 2, Resident Evil 7 Spoilers, Silent Hill 2 spoilers, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunicHealer/pseuds/RunicHealer
Summary: “Insurance’s been shitty too, I take it?” Ethan chuckled at the sympathetic nod. Well fuck it, if Ethan can’t remember this blond man’s name who shared too much and too little, may as well introduce himself properly. “My name is Ethan – Ethan Winters.”Ethan held out his hand, the one Mia didn’t saw off. It would be too awkward to explain why the other hand had an almost jagged scar around the wrist. Lopped off and then messily stapled back. Thank god for Umbrella’s medical miracles. The blond patient smiled at him, the lines on his face turning lighter and the hollowness in his green eyes filling up with something like empathy. “James Sunderland.”





	1. Chapter 1

Ethan Winters muttered a curse, hurrying under the porch of the private practise, lamenting he forgot to bring an umbrella. Sitting on the steps was another patient, eyes glassy and gaze looking past the fog. Ethan saw him every now and then, never really spoke to each other, but knew enough that they were both getting the same Widower grief counselling Umbrella Corps was nice enough to pay for.

There was something in the other patient’s green eyes, like he had done something unspeakable, something horrible to his very dead wife. It was a look Ethan was familiar with. He saw it often enough in the mirror to know how the shadows seem to gather under his eyes, made the lines in his face more pronounced, made him look tired and ready to die.

“Hi,” the patient greeted, as if suddenly realising he was no longer alone. “Looks like Doctor Kauffman isn’t here today.”

“Well fuck it,” Ethan replied, sitting next to the blond. The rain made the world look grey. Well, greyer than the usual, but Ethan had long stopped giving a fuck about the difference. “Only thing that keeps me afloat these days, then he bails out without notice.”

The blond chuckles, tried to fix his hair with steady hands. He was half-drenched, like a mutt in the streets. That made two of them, then. “I think he texted me, didn’t saw until I was walking up.”

“Well, damn. It’d be hard to find a cab or a bus to take me home.” Ethan heaved a sigh. He had to take a taxi. After the mess in Louisiana, he barely had enough to scrape for another car. He had insurance, sure, but he had been waiting for some results for almost three weeks now. “Too bad I left my car in some shithole bayou.”

“Funny that.” Ethan tried to remember the man’s name. They bumped into each other before, but just a few hellos because the grief had been to raw and to be reminded that here was a man who lost his wife was just too soon. “I left mine in some shithole lake.”

“Insurance’s been shitty too, I take it?” Ethan chuckled at the sympathetic nod. Well fuck it, if Ethan can’t remember this blond man’s name who shared too much and too little, may as well introduce himself properly. “My name is Ethan – Ethan Winters.”

Ethan held out his hand, the one Mia didn’t saw off. It would be too awkward to explain why the other hand had an almost jagged scar around the wrist. Lopped off and then messily stapled back. Thank god for Umbrella’s medical miracles. The blond patient smiled at him, the lines on his face turning lighter and the hollowness in his green eyes filling up with something like empathy. “James Sunderland.”

Sunderland shook his hand; his grip was just as firm and steady. Ethan had a sudden image of the blond, splattered with blood and holding a shotgun, aimed at some unseen enemy. The civilian knew enough how that was like, how steady his hands became as he became accustomed with carrying whatever weapon he could find, fighting for his life as he tried to run away from the hellhole that was the Baker Family home and Eveline’s tanker.

Did James’ dream of his wife, too?

Died too early and too soon, a life ripped away with much violence and death. Kauffman was Umbrella’s man. The many employees of Umbrella that lost a spouse went through him, tried to see if they knew too little or too much. If too little, he gives them a nice piece of paper and lets them go, suggests they go somewhere else for more intensive treatment. If too much…

There was a patient once, and Ethan already forgot his name. Ethan remembered how he looked pale each time he left Kauffman’s office though. Terrified that he knew too much to be considered a threat, a leak. Ethan never saw him again.

“Well, James,” Ethan laid back on the concrete stairs, the edge digging a little on his back, rough and cold stone against his skin. “Looks like we’re stuck here, until the rain passes.”

“Looks like it,” James replied, eyes going glassy again as he stared past the mist rising from the ground. Was he expecting his wife to suddenly appear from the fog? Alive and well, pretend that her death didn’t happen?

Ethan thought about Mia, and then stopped. He didn’t want to see her turning to brittle calcium before his eyes, whispering ‘I love you’s as she died. Didn’t want to remember goring her with a crowbar, skin and flesh tearing, blood pooling in her shirt. He didn’t want to think about how happy she looked as he killed her.

Ethan understood James, as he stared back at the fog that obscured much of the upscale Pennsylvania neighbourhood. There were barely any cars around, and most of the people were either at work or hiding inside their homes as they watched the rain. It was almost quiet, except for water pattering on rooftops and the slight breeze giving the downpour some slight angle as it fell. The skies were dark, clouds heavy and rolling. It was a good thing that neither lightning flashed nor thunder rumbled.

Both were silent, and it was a silence bought by understanding. Ethan hated it.

“So, wife was an Umbrella employee?” Ethan began, rubbing his cool palms against his slacks. More like dark dress trousers, really. Khakis just made him remember what he wore when he charged into that desolate house, looking for a wife that didn’t want to be found. “She… got in too deep, and died during a mission.”

Never mind the fact that Ethan killed her, her blood on his hands as she begged for him to kill a science experiment gone wrong.

James shook his head, no longer faraway. “No. I… it’s hard to explain.” Then his expression shuttered off, back into that imaginary land. “You’d think I’m crazy.”

Ethan snorted. “Same. If I told you half the things I saw, you’d wonder why they haven’t thrown me in to one of those loony bins just yet.”

The blond patient’s lips cracked into an amuse smile, laughter escaping from his lips unexpectedly. “They already did with me. God – I was on suicide watch. They had to pull me out of the lake.”

Ethan stood up abruptly, suddenly sick. Even after all he went through, it never crossed his mind to eat the gun he had then as he tried to look for Eveline, ready to end the nightmare.

James looked serene, as if the day he was pulled out of the lake was just another day. It probably didn’t even occur to James just how… How what, exactly?

Ethan could almost understand why, but it didn’t make sense to him. The day he lost Mia was like cutting of a limb (heh), and the day he got a message from her was like getting it back like he didn’t even lost it. It was hard, horrible, but he knew enough that Mia’s life could be in danger at any moment with her occupation. However, he knew it, and that made all the difference. It was easier to accept then, that one day she’ll be gone. He just didn’t expect her to come back.

Now? She’s gone for good.

“Christ, why would you do that?” Ethan put his hands on his pockets, itching to hold on to something, anything. “I know that it’s hard losing your wife, but killing yourself isn’t the answer.”

James just smiled at him, remained silent.

He was opening and closing his hands, muscle memory, trying to remember holding on to something. It made Ethan’s hands ache too, like carpal tunnel.

With no answer forthcoming, Ethan found himself sitting again, but he kept as far as possible from James. If he was too close, he was afraid that the proximity might burn him.

They stayed like that, Ethan can think of nothing to fill in the silence, James content to watch the fog.

Eventually, the rain let up, the heavy mass of clouds rolling halfway, a lighter grey as sunlight slipped through tiny gaps between them. Large puddles littered the road, the street further down had three inches of water as it tried in vain to flow through jammed flood canals. Someone will probably call whoever handles clean up here, afraid that it will go higher.

With a loud breath, James stood up, watched the fog evaporate as the sunlight melted off whatever vapour that floated in the air. His hopes of seeing his dead wife went with it.

“It’s been nice meeting you, Ethan,” James said, all genial and polite. His eyes were blank, as if the shock and grief hadn’t fully settled in, as if he hadn’t quite accepted the truth of his predicament. “Sorry if I offended you, about the lake.”

Ethan turned away, wondered if he stared at the fog, Mia would come back. “It’s alright, shouldn’t have snapped at you. Not my business what you do with your life.”

Still, it didn’t feel right. James didn’t seem like the kind of man to warrant such guilt that he wanted to commit suicide. Didn’t seem like the kind of person to deserve death. Ethan liked to think that it would be easy, but he was probably too much a coward to think about jumping into the bayou with his car.

“I appreciate the concern, nevertheless.” James stood up, brushed imaginary dirt off his trousers. His jacket looked military, green with an American flag sewn above the breast pocket. It looked old, vintage. From his father who probably fought in ‘Nam. Could be something James’ picked up in a thrift store or some military apparel shop. “Thanks for the company.”

Ethan nodded, had no idea what to say. He watched James as he left, almost languid in every step, almost dreamy. For a dream, this was a fucking sad one.

He grabbed his phone, and much like the other patient said, Kauffman texted him.

_Won_ _’t be in the office today, will be back on Thursday._

Didn’t matter, it wasn’t like it was Ethan’s money that was paying for one-two hour sessions with a shrink who could care less and just waited for Umbrella’s next pay. As long as Ethan feigned enough ignorance, he won’t worry about men in SWAT armour barging through his front door and take him to who knew where.

Mia would know where, but Mia wasn’t there anymore.

It’s not like Ethan can go to work now, he was given leave, bereavement. Mia’s parents sent email after email, a thousand voice messages on his mobile and his answering machine, asking where she went, how did she die, and why didn’t you do anything? He had been planning on deleting everything and then send them an email, but that was too much of a hassle. His mother has been dead for ten years, and his father could barely remember the time of the day, let alone his son, so why bother?

He just threw a three-day wake with Mia’s dust in a jar with a few friends and then called it a day. His co-workers could barely look at him in the eye, and all the pitying looks his neighbours gave him whenever he passed them by was just tiring. He was fine. Umbrella just wanted to make sure he wasn’t babbling to anyone about their horrible baking soda volcano that exploded out of proportion.

With James out of sight, Ethan guessed it was his time to leave.

If he thought of James, bloated and grey, with milky eyes and decaying flesh – he ignored the odd pang of pain. It’s not like they were friends or anything, and they would probably be too busy to run into each other again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: depression, eating disorders

Ethan wiped the sweat off his brow, Florida ’ s heat almost unbearable on his skin. Mia was laughing, nose slathered with sunscreen as she built sand castles with Evie. She tied her hair into a messy bun, exposing her long neck and showed off her slender shoulders. Eveline ’ s hair was down, black and shiny against the Florida sun.

“ Come in the water! ” Jack Baker called, spraying sea foam at Marguerite Baker. There was a healthy tint of pink to their skin, tanned from long exposure under the summer heat. Zoe was lying stomach-down on the sand, exposing her back to what was most definitely ultra-violet rays that may cause skin cancer due to long exposure. Lucas was off somewhere, kicking sand at some poor hapless children.

Ethan made a non-committal sound, enjoying watching his wife as she spent time with their  –

Wait.

Jack continued to laugh, his wife laughing with him, loud and obnoxious. The sun was setting and red began to tint the sky. The water rose and Ethan stood up, can only watch as Mia and Zoe turned into stone, seemingly ignoring the calcium flowing up their veins. Eveline was looking at him with her wicked smile, her skin going loose and wrinkly, turning into the old crone that followed him wherever he went.

Jack ’ s head began to bloat, eyes blinking on his mutated flesh as he stretched into a shapeless blob of flesh and veins. Marguerite cackled as roaches crawled out of her mouth, her nose, her ears, her eyes. The seafoam turned murky, mouldy bodies floating from the water. Eveline was smiling at him, her face stretching further and further as black bile began to drip down her eyes and mouth.

Ethan was frozen in place, calcium climbing up his legs. He wanted to run, to move, but he can only watch as the water rose past his calves, reached his waist. Jack and Marguerite were screaming for help, drowning in the blackened depths. Eveline demanded him to give her family back, she just wanted a family, why does everyone hate her?

A facedown corpse grabbed Ethan ’ s hand, and he found himself gazing at it. It turned over and he blinked and wondered why James Sunderland was staring at him with his water-logged lungs and milky eyes.

“ Run. ”

Then Ethan woke up.

His chest felt heavy as he tried to heave as much breath as he can, a dull ache between his eyes. His clothes and blankets were drenched in sweat, muscles stiff and tense, and Ethan only relaxed when he felt the AMC Automag under his pillow. It was loaded and dangerous if he wasn ’ t careful, but it was still a comfort.

He clenched both of his fists, careful not to accidentally pull the trigger. After five minutes of trying to calm his breathing, he let the gun go and sat up from bed. He pulled his shirt off and headed left the room.

His house was the typical white-picket fence suburban American Dream kind of house. With two floors, a garage, a master bedroom, two extra bedrooms for guests or children, three bathrooms (one for the master bedroom, one in the second-floor hall, and another in the first floor), a living room with a flat screen, a kitchen and dining area, and a laundry area.

Everything was organised and clean in his house. He did the laundry every day, and all his clothes were folded and stored immediately after drying. His refrigerated goods were kept in labelled containers, and dried goods were stored by type in his cupboards. He made sure to alphabetise his DVDs, Blu-Rays, and old VHS tapes in a bookshelf in the living room; and the remote was always on top of the coffee table. All his cutlery and dishes were washed everyday even if they weren ’ t used, and Ethan made sure to dump whatever leftovers in sealed plastic bags to avoid contamination.

He was fine.

As Ethan washed his sweat-soaked shirt in the sink in the first-floor bathroom, the remnants of whatever nightmare he had was already fading away. There were impressions of familiarity, half-remembered terrors of the time he spent in the Baker Estate, and fragmented grief from Mia ’ s death.

He already thought she was dead for three years, accepted it, so what happened that night should have barely changed anything.

Instead of going back to sleep, Ethan grabbed his sweaty blankets and bedsheets and dumped it inside his washing machine, along with his clothes. He stood stark naked as he washed his items, counting the seconds as he went through the wash cycle. When he started rinsing it, he went back to his room in search for fresh blankets and bedsheets to replace on the bed, changing into sweatpants and a t-shirt along the way. By the time he was downstairs, the rinse cycle was already finished and his items were ready to be loaded into the dryer. It took less than ten minutes for it to finish, and he went through the motions of folding the laundry and storing it while he felt too wide awake in the middle of the night.

His scarred hand itched, and Ethan ’ s first instinct was to grab antiseptic and drench the offending limb. Except it was already healed, attached properly, despite the jagged lines the staplers left. Instead, Ethan grabbed a bucket and mop from the supply closet in the kitchen, rummaged under the sink for bleach, filled the bucket with water and soap, and then began to clean his house.

He opened all the windows (just enough to avoid unwanted guests) and fans, put on some latex gloves, and made sure to wipe clean any hint of green or black gathering on his walls. He had liquid disinfectants and citrus fruits (already halved) out, polish and other cleaning agents prepared with care. Ethan double-checked his plumbing for leaks, covering any hairline cracks with epoxy or joint compound, ever so glad for YouTube and handyman guides. Ethan knew that his house was probably cleaner than a hospital.

By the time he was finished, his alarm was screeching at 6am and most of the cleaning supplies were rinsed off and dried to avoid bacterial build up. Feeling a little hungry, he cooked up scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, and some hummus. Usually, Ethan craved plenty of protein, but meat had been off-putting for some time now.

He ate half of breakfast and threw the rest.

It was Wednesday, so Ethan had no counselling that day, and he was free to do whatever he liked. Except, he already cleaned the house, and there was practically nothing to do. He could watch a movie, but he already went through his meagre library about a week ago, and there was nothing new showing. Ethan wasn ’ t a fan of video games, so he didn ’ t have a console nor a computer powerful enough to play whatever that was released out there. He could read, but Ethan ’ s selection of detective novels and horror-mystery were just too much these days.

Out of whim, he took a long hot shower and wore something casual. Just jeans and a white button-up with rolled sleeves. His sessions was on Thursday, but it didn ’ t hurt to check if Kauffman was available today.

The bus trip was short, and the skies still looked threateningly grey. According to the forecast, as Ethan checked his phone, there was no rain today. Hopefully.

It was a short walk from the bus stop to the private practise, a sign board with  _ ‘ _ _ Kauffman Grief Counselling for Widowers _ _ ’ _ was the only sign that  _ there _ was an office. The street from the other day was still flooded, leaves and mud still blocked the canals, and Ethan was glad that he chose to wear his partially worn loafers that day instead of his nicer Oxfords.

Strange that the man didn ’ t live there, but who was Ethan to say where a shrink uses office?

He deliberated going in, standing like an idiot at the front door. On one hand, he didn ’ t text Kauffman that he was headed early, and the man would probably write something along the lines of  _ ‘ _ _ does not like authority, side-effect of grief because the patient felt like authority figures did not do anything to save his wife _ _ ’ _ on his paper, prolonging his need for counselling and extending getting a  ‘ fit-to-work ’ clearance that he ’ d need once everything was nice and dandy. Except Mia ’ s insurance was big enough to make Ethan comfortable for the next ten years, and her company benefit added ten more.

The average life expectancy of a healthy white American male was seventy-eight point four years, forty years to go for Ethan. Except, that ’ s not counting unhealthy habits and stress like drinking and smoking, getting your hand sawed off and then stapled together, get thrashed around like a rag doll in the most unsanitary place in the planet, get infected by mind control spores. Maybe Ethan already had two decades shaved off, after all the things he went through in Louisiana.

Before Ethan can touch the knob, the door opened and he found himself face-to-face with James Sunderland.

He had really green eyes.

“ Uh, hi, ” James took a step back and cleared his throat.  “ Never thought I ’ d bump to you again. ”

Ethan shrugged.  “ Thought I ’ d have a session early, but Kauffman would probably bill me twice and Umbrella might throw a fit. ”

James nodded. The two stood awkwardly there, not quite sure what to do next.

Well, Ethan ’ s life was practically a series of bad decisions, what was one more?

“ So, uh, wanna talk some shit over … I dunno … steak? ”

Well, James seemed like the kind of person who made bad decisions, but it still surprised Ethan that the blond accepted his offer.

There was some nice steak house downtown in this upscale neighbourhood. Ethan remembered taking Mia there once, and he had to rub his eyes when the same waiter that greeted them five years ago greeted him now. He almost half-expected Mia to be there, telling him about another day at work. Except, James Sunderland was glancing around the place like he couldn ’ t believe it existed. James Sunderland appeared to be under the impression that nothing was real.

They were seated without hassle to an empty semi-private booth with a view of the partly-commercial partly-residential street. Ethan remembered the food being nice, and the price not too off-putting. Then again, price wasn't the issue.

The waiter dropped two menus on the table, would come back in five minutes to take their order.

The two spent the five minutes in silence, punctuated by the occasional cough or rustling clothes. At least James didn't look too out of place, forgoing his military jacket and opted for a cotton sweater.

“Caesar salad, please,” Ethan took the waiter, using a portable electronic POS strapped to his belt. “New York strip.”

“Pesto,” James said next, placing the menu down. “Rib-eye, please.”

The waiter’s fingers were fast as he took their order. “How would you like it?”

“Well-done,” James and Ethan said at the same time. Then laughed. The waiter gave them a look, wondered why two masculine men liked their steak well-done instead of rare like all maasculine men did. Except he didn't say it, left with just a compliment to whatever they wanted.

“What's funny?” Ethan asked, mirth subsiding. He had no idea what was funny, but hearing the other man want his steak well-done and not bloody rare was… affirming, at the very least. Ethan hated the sight of uncooked meat, would find himself nauseous at the tiniest hint of blood, burnt his own meals just to be sure it's cooked to the bone. It wasn't supposed to be funny, but it was.

“Never thought you'd be the type to want your steak fully cooked, instead of pan-seared on the outside then raw on the inside.” James relaxed on his chair, green eyes bright. Only a small population of the world had green eyes, been regarded as mystical or there's some Irish superstition there. Fuck, Harry Potter had green eyes, and he's like the face of teenaged magic or something. Bigger than Gandalf to the kiddies, but not as magical as the good ol’ High Elves of Fifth Edition.

“Well, that's me, full of surprises,” Ethan grinned, nodded at the waiter who put a plate of Caesar salad in front of him. Ethan ordered a bottle of proseco, and the waiter bought a pair of flutes and stored the bottle on a bucketful of ice. “How about you? Every man there needs protein, and rare is full of 'em.”

James hesitated, a breath stuck between his lungs and throat. He clenched his fists, impressions of holding something seeping through. “I… I'm not very comfortable with red on my protein - or on anything. Bad experience.”

Ethan nodded. He knew enough about bad experiences, didn't pry anymore than he should. “I… get you. Feels too soon.”

James looked relieved, looked away. They were silent, with James looking at anything but Ethan, and Ethan looking at James.

The blond fidgeted a lot, unused to attention. His mind seemed elsewhere. Ethan wondered if James was still stuck in that moment, as he was hauled off some murky lake after his wife died. Maybe James blamed himself. Ethan knew the feeling.

Except, Ethan fucking killed Mia. Ran a crowbar through her gut, told him to kill the little bitch. He can remember shooting her in the head. Slashing her jugular with an axe. If Ethan forgot about her, she would have been still alive, still breathing.

Except, she would have been broken and insane, forced to play family with a monster for the rest of her life. She would have killed herself, trying to escape Eveline. Still, there could have been a less violent way for her to die, maybe if Ethan cured her, she would have been alive. Maybe.

That was a lot of maybes.

The waiter brought their steaks, still assessing their perceived lack of masculinity. James blinked, touched the skin under his eyes, assessing reality. Ethan did that often enough in the tanker, when the hallucinations were at their worst, Eveline's laughter ringing loud in his ears. Except when he looked at a mirror that night (day? The sun was already out then), deep scratches gouged most of his face, his neck. By the time the choppers came, the sting of lacerated flesh was gone.

He tried not to think what it meant.

Ethan watched James eat his pesto first, slowly nibbling through his greens. By the time James was finished with his carbs, he was slowly making his way through his steak. Not wanting to make his fellow patient feel left out, Ethan started on his steak, even if he barely touched half of his appetiser. He barely had an appetite, so what's the use?

Ethan had to stop halfway, already full, feeling bloated and fat. Another bite and he'll burst.

“Not hungry?” James asked, dabbing his mouth gently with a napkin. Ethan shrugged.

“Ate a lot earlier, so not very hungry.” Ethan called for the waiter to put his leftovers in for take-away, and asked for the bill.

“No need to foot it,” James muttered, reaching for his pocket.

“It's alright, my treat. Have plenty of money to burn.” Ethan took a hundred from his wallet and placed it on the envelope the waiter bought, and then took the paper bag of carton containers - microwavable and environment-friendly.

“Shouldn't you save it? For future use?” James eyed Ethan, who took a large gulp of proseco. The waiter returned with the receipt and change. Ethan left fifty.

“Well, you don't see me telling you how to spend your money.” Ethan suddenly felt irritable. James got pasta and steak for free, why not leave it be?

“You're right, but if I jumped a building, you're up and arms about it.”

Ethan had to keep his fists at his sides, the urge at taking a swing at the other blond too great a temptation. “None of my business, remember?”

James leveled him a look, disbelieving. The man sighed, green eyes already in another time, another place. “Well, thanks for the meal.”

Ethan frowned. Didn't sound like James was actually grateful, but better than nothing. “It's nothing.”

And it was. Nothing. It didn't mean anything.

They left soon afterwards, quiet and subdued.

Ethan still had the rest of the afternoon to burn.

“Where do you live?” he asked, almost blithely. He was rather… curious. About James. Wondered if he cleaned his house like it was his daily prayer, just so he had something to do fill the grey days with.

“Not too far,” James replied.  He kept on fidgeting, like he has something to hide. Maybe he does. James was sponsored by Umbrella, after all. “You mentioned commuting before.”

“It's past the city proper, it's a subdivision.” Ethan thought of the American dream house, white picket fence, wife and two kids. Except, Ethan doesn't want children, never will. Experience with one was more than enough.

“Well, I'm supposed to be headed home,” James said, but didn't move. Neither did for some time, barely noticed heavy clouds roll by above their heads, ignorant of the light traffic.

James broke the silence. “I just moved, and I haven't really settled in. You fine with helping me move my stuff?”

With nothing better to do, Ethan shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

The walk took less than ten minutes, into one of those upscale apartment complexes with a front desk, gate code, and elevators with air-conditioning in every hall. James’ unit was on the second floor, eighth door.

It was a big studio: bedroom, kitchen, living room, and dining hall fitted into a single space, toilet and shower in a separate room.

Boxes were piled in a corner, a futon on the floor served as bed, there was a single skillet and plate on the kitchen sink. There was bottled water everywhere, plastic spoons scattered about. There was a pile of neatly folded clothes on the corner. James hung a corkboard on the far wall, newspaper clippings and strings covered it in an intricate web. Cult activity and supernatural sightings. Ethan hoped James wasn't the type to go paranormal or some shit.

“When did you move?” Ethan asked instead, inspecting one of the boxes. The urge to rip it open was there.

James mumbled something, and Ethan had to ask twice. “Two months ago.”

“Shit, and you haven't removed your shit?” James turned pink, and it was a rather interesting colour on his cheeks.

“I… didn't have the time. I - my in-laws kicked me out, and took everything that belonged to Mary - my wife.” James gave him a watery smile.

Ethan was glad that his in-laws were in California.

“Shit, man.” Ethan opened one with a utility knife he always kept on him ever since Duvley. Packaging peanuts covered the contents, and Ethan raised a brow when he picked up a book with a satanic looking pentagram. “What's this 21 Sacraments?”

James had this unreadable expression, and Ethan wondered if he pushed too far with his curiosity. The Bakers, sans Zoe, were pissed off with it. The many close-ups of their faces was a subject of many sleepless nights and embarrassing bouts of keeping his lights on until morning. Among other things. Like bolt locks in every room. The gun under his pillow.

“It's nothing. Just occult stuff. Was a fan for some time. Not touching them again. Just seemed like a waste throwing the expensive ones.” James didn't grab the book, didn't comment any more as Ethan pulled more paranormal and occult material. Christ, some even had human sacrifice at the title. Reminders of Marguerite's alter made him queasy. Except James didn't have dolls, and nothing in his possessions suggested he had a child. For some reason, that made Ethan feel very relieved.

Some of the boxes had IKEA furniture, and Ethan knew enough to assemble the bed and bookshelves. James took to organising his things. For a man who renounced the occult, he had two boxes worth of them. Just how desperate James was to see his wife?

By the time the two were done, James already ordered Chinese takeout and the sun was long gone. His occult stuff were stuffed in the highest shelves, medical books covered most of it, with the occasional romance best suited for middle-aged women (James was actually fucking reading The Notebook). There were trinkets too, turned paperweight. If Ethan thought he saw enough weird statuettes in the Baker hone, clearly they have nothing in James Sunderland's genuine Old God idols. Whatever they were, when James pointed it out. There were dream catchers hung on every side of the wall, on the door, above the windows, inside the bathroom. Ethan found it remotely difficult to believe James was over the occult.

A table for four passed as the dining area; pots and pans hidden under the counter: plates, cutlery, cups, and other utensils stored in cupboards; and all cooking implements like knives, spatulas, whisks, and measuring cups were now in the drawers. 

Last was the 42 inch flat screen mounted on pre-existing hooks in the apartment, some children's cartoon playing. Ethan changed it to some random movie channel, a horrible movie that didn't make the break playing. 

Ethan stuffed his takeout in James’ fridge, forgot about it until the blond grabbed some lagers for both of them.

“You'll eat it at your place?” James asked, eyeing the half-empty carton of chow mien and pickled plums, pushed away on James' table. Before Ethan can think of a sufficient reply, rumbliing thunder caught their attention.

It was dark outside, but the windows fogged easily and stay raindrops left opaque trails on the glass. Ethan turned the heat up, seventy degrees unbearably chilly, reminded him of the swamp. James gave him a grateful look, green eyes glittering.

“Looks like I'm not going home soon,” Ethan was about to dump his leftovers, stopped himself, and chucked it to the fridge instead. 

James stared at the fog, eyes glassy and far away. Ethan kept glancing between the blond and the tv, curious. Eventually, Ethan's interest at James staring at nothing dissipated, and he found himself flipping channels.

He ended up watching Dracula.

Ethan had no idea which one was it, the movie was black and white and scratched at the screen, film reverently preserved.

_ “Welcome to my house!”  _ Dracula greeted Harker, hiding his nature. Once a man, now a creature of violence and hunger. He beckoned Harker to enter his domain, a place of misery and torture for the Englishman. “ _ Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring.” _

Ethan switched to another channel.

The rain didn't let up, lightning and thunder punctuating the night. James did not turn the lights off, and Ethan found himself slipping away to sleep, dropping his head on the dining table, shoulders hunched and arms pillowed under his cheeks.

He slept peacefully that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: for abusive psychiatric practices. Mentions of PTSD as well.

Ethan woke up with all the aches and pains of someone who slept in a horrid position. He was slumped on a chair with most of his weight pressing down on one side, the edges of a table digging horribly on his elbows. The scar on Ethan’s wrist itched, but he ignored it.

The sun peeked through the windows in James’ apartment, made everything hot and stuffy. James kept the lights on, fluorescent pushed back by the yellow glow. Did James forgot to turn it off?

On the bed was James, still on his slacks but he already discarded the sweater. He was on his side, one arm covering his eyes. It didn't feel right to wake James up in his home, so Ethan stretched a little before quietly padding over to the kitchen.

There were some leftover chow mien, and Ethan just heated it up. It was his mostly, good for three, and that was some way to get rid of it.

James woke up with a groan, rolling to the side and threw a pillow to the floor.

“Rough night?” Ethan asked, dividing the leftovers, more for James.

“What time is it?” James sat up, eyes puffy and red. Stubble was already forming on his face, and the lines under his eyes were thicker.

“Around seven.”

James muttered something and got off from bed. He headed over to the fridge to get a water bottle before shutting himself in the bathroom. When he got out, Ethan slipped in next to take a piss, made sure to wash his hands properly before leaving.

“I have a session with Kauffman later,” Ethan mentioned, after five spoonfuls of mien before pushing it away. There were more than half left. Ethan had enough time to take the bus home and get dressed into something fresher. He could wash his clothes after the session.

“Thanks,” James said. “For helping me with my stuff. You didn't have to, well, help me.”

Ethan shrugged. For all intents and purposes, they're stuck on the same boat. Besides, it wouldn't feel right leaving James on his own.

His green eyes were dull, glassy and unfocused. His hands were twitching, and he kept glancing at the window.

“I - thought there was something outside.”

Ethan's mouth felt dry. He can still remember trying to figure through Eveline's control, hallucinations dragging him away from her crone-like form as he tried to inject the serum. Kauffman did mention that a side effect of trauma may include visual or auditory hallucinations.

“Must be my imagination,” James continued, still looking outside. “Wasn't as bad before.

Ethan didn't pry. James didn't even look like he'd even be capable of relaying what he could possibly be seeing. He looked functional enough to feed and clothe himself, had enough money to rent out a nice apartment. The obsession with Occult and some old mining town seem were the only things that probably kept James from moving on. He did find a picture of a blonde woman, plain-looking with blue eyes. Didn’t seem like the type to get involved with whatever BOW organisation out there.

“Well, thanks for taking me in for the night.” Ethan took to washing the dishes, much to James’ protest after they ate. The blond eyed the leftovers Ethan threw, and the other man simply mentioned that food can only be reheated once. James shrugged.

“It’s no problem,” James said, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. His eyes tracked Ethan, green eyes lighter, less empty. His lips were twitching into a slight smile, folding his hands behind his back.

“Next time,” Ethan said before taking his leave. James followed, closed the door when he was out.

The traffic was light and Ethan easily called for a cab to take him home. The lights in his house were off, and Ethan spent almost five minutes on his front door trying to get it open. It was ridiculous, a door knob and at least three bolt-locks. That’s not counting the door alarm with an eight-digit passcode. When he got the door open, he took off his shoes and stored it in a cabinet by the entryway.

Ethan took a shower first before changing into fresh clothes, bought it to the laundry in a pile and put them inside the washing machine right away. The cab was still outside when he locked the doors to his home, gave an extra fifty to take them to Kauffman’s.

The psychiatrist was just getting inside his office, held the door open for Ethan with his oil-slicked smile.

“Good morning, I did not expect to see you early today.” Kauffman motioned for Ethan to stay in the waiting room, and then slunk into his office. It took the man fifteen minutes to do whatever he needed before he called for Ethan to come in.

“So, I saw you leave with Mister Sunderland yesterday,” Kauffman said, tapping his pen on the desk as Ethan took his seat on the black couch. It was rather cliché-looking, as if Kauffman bought it at an auction of Sigmund Freud’s earthly possessions. “He has been a long-time patient. His wife died ten years ago, but here he is - still subjected to widower therapy.”

“Ten years?” Ethan echoed, brows rising. “That’s – well… unbelievable.”

Kauffman chuckled, settled on his chair, fingers clasped together. “Well, he is a… superstitious one. Enough of Mister Sunderland – we’re here to talk about you.”

Ethan felt his teeth grind, mouth snapping shut. He sighed and forced himself to relax. “I’m fine. Coping pretty well compared to anyone around here. You just need to rubber stamp it.”

Kauffman gave Ethan a look, much like an animal assessing its meal. It made Ethan uncomfortable. Reminded him of Jack Baker in his moments of insanity, wild-eyed and grinning. There was a hunger in Kauffman, and Ethan had no idea what the psychiatrist was looking for. Oh, he could report Kauffman, but that mean men knocking on his door to whisk him away to some faraway place in the name of science. So, best keep his mouth shut,

“You and I know that it would be unethical not to help a patient to recover from such a traumatising event.” Kauffman leaned forward, grinning his shark-smile. “I understand that the past few months have been horrible to you, Ethan. I only want to help.”

“Yes, right. Help.” Ethan glanced away, trying to hide the disbelieving scowl. His gaze landed on a shotgun mounted on Kauffman’s wall. It was one of those antique guns used long before World War II, heirlooms passed down from generation to generation.

“Do you consider yourself violent, Ethan?”

Ethan found himself glancing back at Kauffman, an unreadable expression on his face. “I believe in self-defence.”

“That’s not an answer.” Kauffman leaned back, looking smug and self-assured. “I believe that your experience in Louisiana would like to differ. Did you enjoy killing the infected, Ethan? Flight or fight – survival of the fittest. I know that look in your eyes – did you enjoy knocking on death’s door just to deny him?”

“You’re crazy,” Ethan muttered, glaring disdainfully at Kauffman. “What shrink says that?”

“This shrink.” Kauffman was grinning, smug. “Besides, it’s a simply yes or no question, and you have yet to say anything. Am I wrong to assume that the rush of adrenaline in an otherwise monotonous life, shocked into excitement at the hope of seeing your dead wife? Tell me Ethan, did you love and hate her at the same time as the two of you fought for your lives? How was it again? Oh, yes, I remember. You rammed a crowbar straight through her gut.”

Ethan shot up, marched towards Kauffman’s table, trembling. His knuckles clenched white, nails digging into his palms. He can smell hints of copper, salty and thick. Kauffman had something classical playing on his antique gramophone, but Ethan can’t hear it over the sound of his pounding blood behind his ears and the heavy breaths coming out of his nose and mouth. He thought he was seeing red, but the world was wobbling dangerously.

“What – how -  you’re not supposed to know that!” Ethan slammed his fists on the desk, the psychiatrist raised his brow in return – unfazed by Ethan’s show of violence. “She was–“

“Dust?” Kauffman gestured for Ethan to sit, but the man refused to listen. “There are things in this world beyond your comprehension, now sit down.”

Scowling, blood pounding and chest tightening, Ethan did as was told. He wanted to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off of Kauffman’s face, punch the man and maybe break his nose. The shrink made a show of writing on his notepad, probably along the lines that Ethan was dangerously violent and in need of meds. Maybe a year or two institutionalised.

Still, it didn’t make sense. Only Ethan knew what happened between him and Mia in that tanker. Eveline probably knew, but she was dead and incoherent when Umbrella Corps came. Kauffman wasn’t there either; the shrink was in his cushy chair provoking and institutionalising patients for extra pay for donating live test subjects.

Now there was a strange look in Kauffman's eyes, like Ethan affirmed a long-standing suspicion. Whatever it was Ethan did or said seem to convince the doctor of something. There was a strange fever-light to his eyes, much like the delusional look Mia had whenever she was under Eveline's direct control. It made all the lines on Kauffman's face sharper, spots of imperfection like horrible mutations. There was something old and sinister lurking behind Kauffman's eyes, and it  _terrified_ Ethan.

“Now, I don’t usually make a show of warning others of… things beyond such minds of idiots like as you,” Kauffman began amicably. He leaned back and gave Ethan a critical gaze. “But I would like to make an exception. As you said, I am going to rubber stamp your clean bill of health. In exchange for one thing.”

“What?” Ethan snapped, hands trembling. He could barely hear Kauffman over the din of his heart thundering behind his ears. Every breath was hot, practically scalding, as air left his mouth and nostrils. Every muscle in his body tensed, geared up to either run or punch Kauffman. He can’t do anything. He’d be ruined if something happened to Kauffman. There’s an emergency button under his desk, and cameras hidden in the walls and fixtures. Ethan knew he was being watched. He doesn’t want to end up in some remote facility, with some BOW organisation cutting him up in the name of science.

“Stay away from James Sunderland.” Kauffman took out a piece of paper from his desk, proceeded to jot down a few notes, and then signed it. “If you know what’s good for you, stay as far away from him as possible. Forget that you met him, even.”

Ethan had a strange sinking feeling of Déjà vu. He went through this conversation before. What Kauffman wanted had him plummeting back in time when he found Mia in the cell, telling him to go away. He can still see the dim lighting casting most of her face into the shadows, her hair and face matted with dirt, clothes caked with sweat and mud. Ethan remembered being happy to see her, but he also remembered being confused and scared.

He remembered the fear and the grief and the _satisfaction_. Mia bleeding out before burning away, like hellfire blooming from her heart, turned her to stone and faded away like ashes in the wind. Ethan hated her in that moment – for making hope, for making him believe that they could still go back with their lives like nothing happened.

Except, it wasn’t Mia that called him to Duvley.

It was Eveline.

In the end, it didn’t matter. They were all dead anyway.

“So, do we have an agreement, Mister Winters?” Kauffman was right in front of Ethan now, rubber-stamped clearance for Ethan’s mental health placed on top of his lap with deceptive gentleness. “As an incentive, should you think to disagree… let’s say things will be unpleasant for you, Mister Winters.”

Ethan blinked, feeling the world crash around him. Everything was so far away. He could barely believe what was happening. They were just talking about his non-existent issues, and now Kauffman was blackmailing him to stop interacting with another patient. It felt so surreal. By all technicalities, they both get what they want, but it just felt wrong. Like Ethan didn’t deserve to go on with his life.

Most of all, he hated being told what to do. As much as he’d want to shove the damned piece of paper down Kauffman’s throat, it wasn’t that hard for the man to take anything and everything Ethan had left.

With no choice but to comply, Ethan snatched the paper from Kauffman’s hands. He knew that this was a losing battle, a battle he needed to back away from. He had enough experience with those.

“Good boy,” the psychiatrist was all polite smiles and benevolent expression. He ambled back to his chair, self-satisfied and triumphant. “You may not understand it now, but James Sunderland is a hazard to your recovery and physical safety. Should you find yourself speaking with him… things can be unpleasant.”

“Whatever,” Ethan muttered, standing up. “Are we done?”

“Yes. There’s no need to return either.”

Ethan Winters was quick to get to the door, ready to slam it close. So what now if Kauffman threatened him? It’s easy to talk to James out of his sight, away from his office. Hell, Ethan might still have James’ number somewhere. He does remember memorising it after seeing a piece of paper with the man’s phone. The other blond was forgetful enough to remember his own number anyway, so Ethan had an easy way to contact James.

“Almost forgot,” Kauffman called out. “I know you’re thinking that just because you are meeting him out of these walls, I wouldn’t know.”

Kauffman smiled, knowing and snake-like. “I will know if you will speak with Mister Sunderland, Ethan. Don’t forget that.”

“Fuck off,” Ethan snapped and then closed the door with a loud slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooooooooo.... there may be a plot other than two guys doing H/C stuff... which I forgot to add in the tags.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos, comments, and bookmarks! Love you guys~ :D

**Author's Note:**

> Hard not to see the similarities between James Sunderland and Ethan Winters. Dead wife sending a message to pick 'em up in some hellhole full of disgusting monsters and practically hallucinate their way through. Depending on your choices, you get the wifey back or she dies. Except, both Ethan and James goes home without their respective wives and they both end up getting grief counselling for widowers.
> 
> For some reason, some random person saw James drive his car to Toluca Lake, calls 911, and he ends up admitted under suicide watch, discharged and for some reason - Umbrella pays for his counselling. Maybe Umbrella knows about this mysterious Silent Hill, full of mysterious and horrific creatures, yet not even an ounce of whatever Letter Virus present. James is one of the few lucky ones that got out from whatever hallucination the place gave him, and they're trying to investigate. Kauffman is just there to make sure that whatever secrets the Old Gods have, it doesn't get out, probably.


End file.
